Careful the Tale You Tell
by carta
Summary: Written for Yuletide. The next chapter in the story of Mouse, Isabeau, and Navarre.


**Careful the Tale You Tell**  
_Written for Ravenbell. Yuletide 2008_  
by ames

"And there, in the day that had no night, and the night that had no day, the spell was broken. Juliane entered the hall, her hair glowing in the light of a sun that she had not seen for far too long. She called out to her lover, 'do not kill the sorcerer! He must look upon us both, and we will be free.' And so it was. The sorcerer beheld them both, man and woman, wolf and hawk, and felt his hold on them break. He ran away and was never seen again." Philippe paused, and looked meaningfully at the empty mug of ale in front of him.

"And the lovers? Juliane and Nicholas?" The barmaid hurried over with a pitcher and refilled his cup, splashing some on the table in her eagerness as she poured. "Were they together forever?" The crowd around him murmured in agreement, eager for the rest of the tale.

Philippe lifted his mug and drank. He was becoming accustomed to this kind of attention, the steady gazes of people longing for news, for something different from their everyday lives. It was at times a little disturbing, but then again, he had traveled with Etienne Navarre. He was used to things that were a little disturbing.

"So far as I know, my lady," he replied, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. "I have not seen them since that day. I left to seek my fortune, and to tell their story so that all may know the power of true love." He smiled. "Of course, all good stories end with a kiss, do they not? And a promise of happily ever after, and why would the story of Juliane be different? Now, I am tired, and could use a rest. I believe you promised a bed?"

"Well, Lord, this isn't the bed I was hoping for." Philippe stared at the faintly moldy straw that covered the floor of the barn. "Frankly, Lord, I was expecting something a little more befitting my current status as storyteller. Granted, I'm not quite telling the truth, but I think you'll agree that in cases such as these, absolute honesty would have unfortunate consequences. Then again," he paused and peered at a suspiciously-moving patch of hay, "perhaps the truth would have served me better."

He shook out his cloak, carefully removing the loaf of bread and hunk of cheese he'd hidden in its folds and setting them aside. His travels were long and tiring, and while he was no longer Philippe the Mouse, hunted escaped prisoner of Aquila, he was still a person traveling alone, and thus suspicious. The story of Ladyhawke had become his trade, a tale he could barter for the occasional meal and covered bed, but lately the meals had been few, and the bedding was even more rare. "I suppose that once again I'm to learn something from this, Lord," he said, skeptically. "Although I do not know what I can learn from dried bread, watery ale, and a cold bed. Not even a fair wench to warm it, and I think you'll agree that I have been quite deprived in that area of life. A cloak is warm, Lord, but the arms of a maiden are even warmer." He paused. "Or so I've been told."

It was getting darker now, and colder. Philippe wrapped his cloak tightly around himself and burrowed into the hay, tucking the bread and cheese underneath his arm. "A quiet night is all I ask. My dreams have been disturbing of late, and it isn't very restful. A quiet night, a dreamless sleep, and perhaps tomorrow, an actual bed. One can hope." He closed his eyes and slept.

The barn was dark and dangerous, and his nose twitched incessantly, cataloging scents and potential dangers. He scurried through a crack in the wall, dodging between the tines of a pitchfork and into the blinding sun. He sniffed. Bread. Across the corner of the courtyard, just past the woman. The woman. The mouse crouched, holding himself very still, watching. She was singing quietly, dipping into a basket for a shirt, shaking it lightly then hanging it just out of the mouse's view. "Do, do, l'enfant do. . ." The mouse crept forward, slowly, slowly, his hunger driving him further into the open courtyard, eyes glued to the woman as she bent, stretched, quietly laughed and sang. Another step, and another, creeping forward on tiny paws, claws almost silent on the stone and dirt. The woman knelt to gather a shirt that had fallen from the basket, and froze, staring at the little mouse, who was barely breathing. Fear rushed through his body, heart pounding, breath fast. The woman cocked her head sharply, staring at him with unblinking yellow eyes and a faintly predatory expression. There was a beat of absolute stillness, then a sudden clattering of hooves on stone broke her concentration, and she stood, a smile breaking over her face. The mouse seized the chance and ran.

Philippe woke, gasping. He lay there, trying to recapture the details, but it was too late. They were fading into mere impression - sunlight, the feel of warm stone, a high wall, yellow eyes staring at him intently. Philippe shook off the dream with effort, closed his eyes, and fell back asleep.

"Another day, another hovel," Philippe said quietly, surveying the dirt town in front of him. The dwellings were little more than shacks, with ragged-looking children in front digging in the dirt with sticks. Philippe hoped they were playing, and not hunting grubs to stretch the evening stew. He glanced up as a gust of wind rushed through the trees, noting the darkening sky and drop in temperature. A storm was coming, and it looked to be a bad one. If Philippe was going to avoid another cold night in a barn, or curled up in a tree, or worse, he needed to find a willing and generous ear, preferably attached to a willing and generous wench.

He headed for the most likely looking building. It was situated in the middle of what could only vaguely be considered a town, and boasted several large tables outside, and two horses tied to a railing by the door. Philippe pushed through the doorway, wrinkling his nose at the somewhat dank smell inside. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim, smoke-filled light, and took in his surroundings. The inn was mostly empty. Two women were in the corner chopping vegetables, and a man huddled under a cloak at a central table. Philippe resigned himself to paying for his dinner, and chose a table by the fire.

"You're not from around here," a deep voice grated from behind him, making him jump with surprise. He turned and found himself nose-to-chest with whom he assumed was the inn's proprietor.

"No, no, you are right, sir," Philippe stepped backwards quickly, adding some space between the two of them. "I am not from your fair village. I am a wanderer, a seeker of my fortune."

The man grumpily muttered, "A beggar, you mean to say." The women cackled. Philippe glared at them, and turned his back.

"No, not a beggar," he replied, affecting a haughty tone. "I have coin, and you are welcome to it. That is," he added at the hungry gleam that shone in the innkeeper's eye, "you are welcome to a fair price for food and lodgings for the night. And I shall determine fair."

The innkeeper looked closely at Philippe, then grunted. "Sit. There's ale for drink, and a stew."

Philippe bowed. "Thank you, Innkeeper. In these dark times, we must all join together, yes?" He sat with his back to the fire and surveyed the room. Lord, he thought. I have no interest in fighting tonight, if you don't mind. Make it an easy night, please. He busied himself with his cloak and snuck a look at the man sitting alone at the table next to his. He was a dark man, grimy and tired-looking, sitting hunched over the empty table. He slowly turned his head and their eyes met. The man's eyes were pale as the early dawn, his mouth was hidden under a haphazardly trimmed beard, and a straggly lock of hair fell over his forehead. The intensity of his stare was unnerving. Philippe turned away and stared fixedly at the fire. Keep that man far from me, Lord, I want nothing of him, he prayed.

It was not to be. Philippe braced himself at the screechy sound of a chair being moved, and waited for the inevitable. The strange man walked around the table and stopped in front of Philippe, blocking the fire's heat.

"What's your name, boy?"

"Gaston," Philippe replied shortly.

"Gaston what?"

Philippe exhaled sharply and looked up. "Does it matter? Gaston is enough. Who are you?"

A beat, and the man suddenly grinned, flashing white teeth in the mass of beard. "I am nobody, little one. I am the wind in the night. But - you may call me Gentien."

Philippe regarded him for a moment, then smiled and waved his hand to an empty seat. "Then join me, Gentien, and we will dine upon the inn's finest food. And if you are in a receptive mood, I can tell you a tale of love and magic that will chill your bones and make your heart sing." He raised his voice deliberately at the end, a tacit invitation to the rest of the inn to come and listen.

"Ah, a storyteller, are you?" Gentien asked. He paused as the innkeeper approached, continuing only when the man was within earshot. "Tell your tale, trade a story for a room?"

Philippe tipped his head in acknowledgment of both the question and the gesture. "Indeed, if the innkeeper is a generous and kind man, and if he finds my story pleasing. I will say that I have not paid for many rooms over these past few months." A bowl of watery soup was slammed on the table. There was a faint scrape of chairs being pulled closer. "I found the inns in the next town but one back to be particularly generous. It makes for a good tale, if I can say 'ah, Alain's inn had the best food' or 'The tavern three towns down had clean bedding the likes of which I haven't seen in months.' Folks do seem to appreciate it."

The soup disappeared, and a bowl of thick steamy broth replaced it. Philippe pulled it closer to him. "Much thanks, kind sir. And another for my friend here, and some bread, and ale, if you don't mind."

The innkeeper stared at him for a moment, then grunted, "The story had better be worth it."

Gentien raised a curious eyebrow. "Is there a story, in fact? Or is this just a ruse to get a free meal?"

"There is a story, my friend," Philippe replied. "A story of Juliane, a woman of surpassing beauty, of Nicholas, the man who loved her, and of sin and an evil curse, and how true love saved them."

"Ah," Gentien replied, leaning back with a smile. "A love story, then. Something untrue. A pretend tale for the maidens and little children."

Philippe found himself bristling. While normally he was quite content to let his listeners assume whatever they wanted about the veracity of his story, this dismissal rankled. "No," he replied. "I assure you, it is quite true. I was there." He took a deep breath, gathered his growing audience in with his eyes, and began his tale. "Her name was Juliane, and she was the most beautiful woman in Laon. Her hair was like golden fire, shining and radiant. Her skin was as pale as fresh milk, her lips like pink rosebuds touched by the morning dew. I have never seen a woman to match her before or since, and I expect I never will.

"He was Nicholas, the Captain of the Guard, and he loved her as she loved him, as the parched earth loves the rain shower, and the fire loves the dry wood. Their love was such that the town itself rejoiced in it, and wished them well. All except for the local priest, who wanted her for his own." Philippe paused. "Priests, while beloved of God, are occasionally not who they seem to be." The crowd nodded wisely. "And there are men, evil men, who don the trappings of holiness, but are not worthy of them. It is up to the Lord to judge them, but we must protect ourselves from the false ones, for who else is there to protect us? This priest was one of those, an evil man who made bargains with the devil. He approached Juliane in lust and desire. She refused him, and in his anger, he called forth a curse that was so terrible that Nicholas was driven far from the town in a hopeless quest to remove it. By day, Juliane would be a hawk while Nicholas was a man. By night, Juliane regained her womanly form, and Nicholas became a wolf. They were doomed - eternally together, forever apart."

There was a group sigh of contentment, as the audience settled in for a story. Gentien watched Philippe, his face impassive. Philippe took a drink and continued his tale. When he first told the story, many months ago, it came haltingly. He was worried about being jailed for calling the Bishop an evil man, for participating in the fight that ultimately killed the Bishop and several of his guards, for being the Mouse that escaped the dungeons of Aquila. So the Bishop became the more familiar corrupt priest or a sorcerer, Isabeau and Navarre became Juliane and Nicholas, Aquila became any number of small towns, and Philippe's own part in the drama was severely reduced to that of observer, if he included himself at all.

Tonight, however, Philippe found himself hewing very closely to the truth - the dance in the barn, the shooting of Ladyhawke, Imperius the Monk, the fight in the church, all were included. He mentioned his own part, too, and even pulled aside his shirt to show the scars left by the wolf's claws when Philippe pulled him from the icy river. (The gasps of shock were quite gratifying.) And all the while, Gentien showed no expression beyond mild interest. Philippe, somewhat aggravated, turned slightly away and focused on those who were giving his words the whole-hearted attention they deserved.

"Ha." Philippe surveyed his room with satisfaction. It was small, barely more than a closet with a straw-filled pallet for a bed, but the door closed, there was room to stand, and it was warm. He found a niche in the wall for his candle and placed the small tray of food on the floor by his feet while he changed into the clean nightshirt the innkeeper's wife had given him. "Well, once again You are right, Lord," he commented. "I tell the truth, or closer to the truth than I am accustomed to, and look - a warm bed, clean clothes, and a decent meal."

"Perhaps you should try the truth more often, then."

Philippe jumped and turned to find Gentien filling the open doorway. "Oh, it's you, then," he said, and sat on the bed, pulling the tray of food into his lap. "Be off with you now, this isn't a room for sharing. And if you are here for baser matters, well, this isn't the room for that either."

Gentien took a step inside and shut the door behind him. "You need to be careful, Gaston. There are those who can see through your little stories."

Philippe frowned even as his heart seemed to stop. "It's a story, it's the truth, why should I care either way?"

"Because I know the lady of whom you speak." Gentien leaned close and breathed a word into Philippe's ear. "Isabeau."

Philippe jerked backwards, almost kicking over his tray. "I don't know that name. I don't know who that is."

"Isabeau d'Anjou," Gentien mused. "The prettiest girl in the world, who grew into the most beautiful woman. Many have desired her, the mighty and the low." He quirked an eyebrow. "Even I had my fantasies. But again, I advise caution."

"Why? Who are you, really?"

Gentien opened the door and stepped into the narrow hallway. "Yes, caution. Like that of a mouse, Gaston. Use your whiskers to examine your surroundings for safety, be light and fleet of foot, and if you can, go back to Aquila. You may be needed there." He closed the door with a soft click, leaving Philippe in a whirl of confusion and fear.

Go back to Aquila? It was not possible. He could not go back there. The dungeons never really left him, no matter how far he wandered. Going back that first time had been an act of courage that surprised even him. "And if it had been anyone else asking," he thought, "I would not have done it." And while he was glad to have played his part, and was gladder still to use the adventure as a livelihood, he was not going back. It was too hard, it was too hard, it was far too hard. Thus resolved, he set himself to eating, determinedly not thinking about Gentien, Isabeau or Navarre, mysteries of any sort, or anything other than the food on his lap, the bed underneath him, and his travels the next day.

Back in the barn. The mouse took a different route, dodging around the feet of a large black horse, and out through the open door. He was expecting grass, anticipating grass, hoping for the camouflage it offered, because he was a mouse, and thus always, always, always in danger. Instead of the soft earth, however, his claws skittered on hard stone, startling him into immobility. He froze, whiskers working frantically, the rest of him still. Quiet. Unmoving. Staring at the woman hanging laundry in front of him, the bend and sway of her body as she dipped down and stretched up.

The woman. Familiar, and yet not so. She seemed almost inconceivably tall and at the same time, he felt like they were of a height, that if he wanted, he could take her by the hands and spin her around and around and around. He stepped forward, not thinking about being a mouse, and somehow he was Philippe again. Not a mouse, but Philippe the Mouse, he who escaped Aquila and rescued the woman and was a hero. She turned to see him and a smile broke over her face. "Why, it's you!" she exclaimed. "You've lost your whiskers, little mouse, but I am glad to see you."

He opened his mouth to greet her, to say something, but no sound came forth. And then chaos, as armed and mounted soldiers crashed into the courtyard, their horses' hooves clattering on the stone, their voices raised in terrifying yells, swooping the woman up in their arms. It was as if fifty men stole fifty women, fifty soldiers with bloody robes and glinting swords. "Help me, mouse!" the woman screamed. "Help me!" But he could only hide behind a stone, tiny and helpless, and running like mad when the solders left. He bolted across the courtyard, through the gate, and directly into the monastery.

"Imperius!" he screamed. "Imperius!" But there was only the wind, and the faint howling of a wolf in the distance. An empty bottle rattled down the steps and shattered explosively, shocking him awake.

Philippe stormed down the muddy village street, glaring at everyone he passed. He was looking for Gentien, because while Philippe had no desire to get involved in magical things, apparently magical things wanted to get involved with him. Gentien was involved somehow, he knew it. He grabbed people at random, asking, "Have you seen Gentien? Gentien, the man from the inn last night, have you seen him?" Those who answered shook their heads in denial, or feigned ignorance. The rest pulled free and scurried away.

"These are dangerous times, Lord," Philippe said, standing alone in the middle of the muddy path that passed for a road. "And it seems I am bound to return to Aquila. If there is danger there, or if this stranger believes there is danger, then someone should warn them. And if I am to be free of this cursed magical meddling, then apparently the job falls to me." He paused. "Damn."

He turned back to the inn stables, with the intent of obtaining a horse. Beg, borrow, or steal, it did not matter to him. He needed to leave, he needed to be quick, and his stride was only momentarily broken when he saw Gentien at the stable door.

"You!" Philippe cried. "You there, I must speak with you!"

Gentien nodded and gestured for Philippe to follow him inside. The stable was dark and stank of hay and horses. Philippe shoved inside and whirled to face the other man, pointing his finger accusingly.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "Who are you, really? Because I have seen strange things of late, portents and dreams. If you are a part of it, if you have done this to me, then you must undo it."

Gentien shook his head sadly. "I cannot undo anything, Little Mouse," he replied, spreading his hands helplessly. "I am no sorcerer, I am no priest. I am but a man."

"No," Philippe said. "I've had dreams, these past few nights, dreams of - her. I believe you know of whom I speak, and why I do not say her name aloud. And I do not find it a coincidence that you came to me yesterday warning of danger, and last night I had the worst dream yet."

Gentien looked up sharply. "What happened?"

"She was taken by a group of soldiers," Philippe said. "There was blood on their uniforms, and their swords."

"And Navarre?"

"Nowhere to be seen."

Gentien swore and turned sharply away. He stood in silence for a moment, head tilted back in thought, then spun to face Philippe. "You must return to Aquila," he said intently. "Take my horse, it is only a few days' ride, shorter than that if you ride hard. You must warn them, give them a chance to defend themselves. They will listen to you, they trust you like they trust no other." He grasped Philippe's arm and pulled him over to a large horse, one larger even than Goliath. "There are men, Philippe, base men who lust only after that which they cannot have. The bishop was not entirely hated, and there are many who were angered by his death. Not all of the bishop's men are men of God, as the bishop himself was not a man of God, and they seek revenge. They hate Navarre, and hate Isabeau as much as they desire her, and their passions are driving them. Isabeau and Navarre are in danger. You must go back."

Philippe grasped the bridle and, with the assistance of a boost from Gentien, mounted. "And you?" he asked. "Will you also come?"

Gentien shook his head. "No, I cannot. I will find help elsewhere. There is a man. . ." His voice trailed off, and a flash of confusion went across his face. "A man who might be able to help us."

Philippe's eyes widened. "You know Imperius!" he whispered harshly. Gentien blinked and looked at him with clouded eyes. Philippe leaned down down and grasped his shoulder, shaking it slightly. "You know him, the monk! He was also in my dream, except that where he should have been, he was not. If I have been given the ability to tell the future, and it seems that I have, then I fear for his life."

Gentien smiled quickly. "Perhaps. And what do you see of our future, Philippe? Will we be successful?"

Philippe looked at him silently for a moment, then shook his head. "I do not know. I hope so."

Philippe picked his way along the tree-lined path to the cottage where Navarre and Isabeau lived. It was small, built of stone and wood, with a low gated wall separating a small garden and courtyard from the rest of the property. He swung down from his horse and looped the reins over a low tree branch. After giving the horse a quick pat and the core of the apple he'd been eating along the way, he opened the gate to the courtyard. "Isabeau?" he called. "Are you here?"

Philippe rounded the corner of the house and stopped, taking in the scene in front of him. Isabeau was there, beautiful as ever, and it made something in Philippe's chest hurt. She'd grown her hair out a little, now that she wasn't reliant on moonbeams to manage it, and the edges brushed her cheeks as she leaned down to the basket at her feet. She took a shirt from the laundry pile, shaking it out lightly before hanging it to dry. "Do, do, l'enfant do," she sang softly. "L'enfant dormira bien vite. Do, do, l'enfant do. L'enfant dormira bientôt."

Philippe blinked and shook his head sharply. The courtyard, the washing on the line, the lullaby Isabeau sang, even the bits of hay and gardening tools scattered about were exactly where he'd expected them to be. Against his most fervent hopes, the dreams hadn't stopped once he left for Aquila. On the contrary, they had only increased in intensity and violence, to the point where he dreaded sleeping entirely and put it off as long as he could, riding as deep into the night as he felt was safe. And as he grew closer to the city, he began to hear talk about the Captain of the Guard, and his woman. Not all of it was nice.

"Isabeau!" he called out cheerfully, stepping lightly across the courtyard and smiling at her surprised expression.

"Philippe!" she exclaimed. "Why, I cannot believe it is you! It's been many months, dear friend." She smiled widely and reached out, hugging him warmly. He indulged himself for a second in her arms, then stepped back, blushing. "Have you come to visit? Or to stay? We have missed you, you know." She caught his hand and tugged him towards a low bench that sat alongside the house.

"Just for a visit, I'm afraid," Philippe replied, smiling. "I wanted to see you, and Navarre, and perhaps rest a bit. It's a hard life, traveling, one never knows when one's next meal will come. Or what it will be. And sometimes, it is best not to know at all."

Isabeau laughed. "I remember it well. Come inside, have something to drink. Navarre is preparing to leave me for a few days while he rides off with his men." She rose and lead him inside to the kitchen, directing him towards the table. "He has to guard the borders, or something. I admit I've never paid that much attention. He wanted to send me back to Angou while he was gone, but now that you are here, you can stay with me!" She smiled at him. "I found that I missed our evenings together."

"Mouse!" a voice boomed, and Philippe was roughly grabbed, spun around, and manhandled into a fierce hug.

"Navarre," he choked out, struggling slightly against the strong arms holding him.

Navarre whacked him heartily on the back twice before dropping him back in the chair. "And where have you been? Off seeking your fortune?" Navarre grinned blindingly as Philippe tried to catch his breath. He hadn't changed at all, except that the tension he'd carried with him when they were traveling together was gone. He gave Isabeau a brief kiss and snatched an apple from a bowl on the table. "Tell us news. What have you heard?"

Philippe swallowed and decided to once again risk the truth. Well, a form of the truth, at any rate. "I've come on business, actually."

"Oh, business?" Navarre raised an eyebrow. "And just what business would that be?"

Philippe leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Perhaps nothing, but there's a rumor, a tale I am sure, but persistent. They say there is a man who killed a bishop, and for that he must die. They say he has a woman, one who drives men mad with desire." Philippe felt his cheeks heat up as he said this, and blushed harder as he caught the smiling glance the other two shared. "I've heard it several times, and even more as I got closer to Aquila. And I've had dreams." He shivered involuntarily. "I do wish you'd moved!" he exclaimed suddenly. "This is not a healthy place to live, and as much as I'd like to see you more often, I cannot stay here."

Isabeau reached across the table to take Philippe's hand lightly. "We understand, Philippe," she said softly. "But Navarre cannot leave, and I must stay with him."

Navarre, meanwhile, was frowning. "These rumors," he asked. "Tell me more."

"There are men," Philippe said slowly. "Soldiers on horseback, and they will come into your home and destroy all that you love."

Navarre slammed his fist on the table and stood up angrily. "Isabeau, you must leave," he said. "Philippe isn't the only one whose heard these rumors. I was hoping it was just idle gossip, but if it's gone outside of Aquila, then there may be truth to it."

Isabeau's brow furrowed in thought. She looked at Navarre in obvious confusion. "Soldiers on horseback?" she asked. "But why would soldiers come after us? You are their captain."

Navarre sighed. "Not everyone hated the Bishop, Isabeau. We did make enemies."

Isabeau shook her head. "I'm not leaving, Navarre. We were separated long enough, I'll not go away, and where would I go that they could not find me?"

"Imperius," Philippe said in a flash of inspiration. "I visited him on my way here. He is drunk, my lady, and could use your sweet touch to help him come back."

Isabeau ran her hands through her hair in a gesture of exasperation that Philippe recognized from many nights on the road. "Imperius," she said lowly. "He is frequently drunk. I do not know that I can help him at all."

Navarre put his arm around her shoulders. "We do owe him," he reminded her gently. "We should not forget that."

Isabeau flushed and ducked her head. "I know," she replied. "I just don't want to leave you."

Navarre tightened his arm briefly, then looked at Philippe. "You will go with her?" he asked. "She shouldn't travel alone, and I will best be able to find out what is happening if I stay here."

"I will," Philippe promised. "As God as my witness, no harm shall come to her while we travel. Even if it means giving my life, I will protect every hair on her head."

"Well, let us hope it does not come to that," Navarre said, a flash of humor in his eyes. "You will leave tomorrow. Philippe, did you ride? You can stable your horse in the back with Goliath. He has missed you, I think."

Philippe frowned as he stood. "I doubt that. He has never liked me, no matter how often I apologized."

Isabeau touched him lightly on the arm, steering him towards the door. "Horses can be like that," she said, a touch of resignation in her voice. "Now, go take care of yours. If we're leaving tomorrow, I have to get ready."

Philippe caught the half-eaten apple Navarre tossed his way and exited the kitchen. He glanced back quickly to see Isabeau turn to Navarre with a solemn expression, and Navarre take her in his arms. Philippe averted his eyes and hastened his steps. He hated being the bringer of bad news, and more, being the one forcing them to separate again after only this short time together. "I hope I am not wrong in this, Lord," he said, approaching his horse. "I do not want to think how my welcome would change if - " He jerked his head up at the faint sound of hooves. Thinking quickly, he clambered up the tree, using his horse as a stepping-off point. Through the leaves, he could see what looked like a small army. As they drew nearer, he saw that it was a smaller group of soldiers, maybe five to eight, armed. Philippe dropped straight out of the tree and hit the ground running.

"Navarre!" he bellowed. "Navarre, they are coming! They are here!" He burst through the gate and almost crashed into Navarre in the courtyard.

"Who?" Navarre demanded, gripping Philippe's arms tightly and shaking him a little. "How many?"

"Five, eight, I don't know," Philippe gasped. "They are riding fast, with swords out and ready."

Navarre shoved Philippe towards the cottage roughly, his gaze already gone flinty. "Get her inside," he said as he drew his sword. "Both of you, inside!"

"Navarre - " Isabeau said. She was standing in the doorway, pale as death, breathing fast. "The alarm - "

"Inside!" Navarre bellowed, spinning around and pointing to the house. Philippe flinched and rushed over to Isabeau.

"Can you hear them?" he asked, tugging her inside. "I can hear them, can't you?"

"I can," she replied absently. There was a crash from outside, and all of a sudden the air was filled with the noise of horses thundering, the clang of metal crashing against metal, and Navarre bellowing in anger. Isabeau grabbed Philippe by the shoulders and forced him to look at her. "There is an alarm," she said. "A big bell outside the back of the courtyard, by the stable. It hasn't been hung yet, but you should be able to lift it."

"My lady," Philippe started, but she shook her head sharply and cut him off.

"You must help him. He can't do this alone," she insisted. "Go to the stables. Let Goliath out, he will help Navarre. Sound the alarm, and then you must fight, Philippe. You must help."

"But my lady," Philippe began again. "You - "

"I will be fine," Isabeau said. She smiled grimly. "I am, after all, married to the Captain of the Guard. I've learned a few things." She shoved him towards the door and the chaos outside. "Go. Now!"

Philippe raced outside and flattened himself against the cottage wall. In front of him was a terrible scene. Navarre was fighting two men at once, swords flashing and blood flying. Philippe edged closer to the back wall of the courtyard and was almost taken out by the arrow that flashed past him. He spun around in shock and saw Isabeau at the window, notching another arrow. "A few things indeed," he breathed, and ducking, raced towards the back gate.

"Another one!" someone shouted behind him, and he ran faster, almost crashing into the gate in his hurry. Someone grabbed him from behind, trying to yank him around. Philippe, who had never gotten out of the habit of wearing clothes that were far to big for him, raised his arms and dropped down, effectively slipping out of his tunic. He pushed off from his crouch, dodged a swinging arm, and hurtled to the gate, which thankfully, was unfastened. He pushed through and barely managed to close it behind him. It was a matter of a few seconds to find a large stone to block it shut. The soldier on the other side hit the gate a few times with his fist, yelling in anger, and then apparently gave up. Philippe rested briefly against it, panting slightly. "A little warning would have been nice, Lord," he said. "Tomorrow would have been nice." He pushed off of the gate. "Goliath, then the alarm," he reminded himself.

A sudden wind had picked up, and it was hard going. Philippe spared a glance at the sky, surprised to see the dark clouds rolling in, covering what was a clear sky only a few minutes earlier. He ran to the stable and pulled the door open. It was dark inside, and hot. Goliath was stamping his feet in anxiety, whinnying and tossing his head, obviously eager to get out and get in the middle of the fray. Philippe opened the door to his stall and got out of the way. Goliath reared up, kicking his hooves forward. He landed hard enough to jar Philippe's teeth, and was gone. Philippe made it to the door to see the black horse soar over the wall and into the courtyard. "Goliath!" he yelled, caught up in the excitement and punching his fist in the air. He ran out of the barn and tripped, falling flat on his face.

A large hand slammed onto his shoulder and roughly rolled him over. Philippe's eyes widened as the soldier who had captured him leaned down, close enough that Philippe could feel his breath and see the flecks of color in his eyes.

"I recognize you, little man," the soldier said with an evil smile, hair whipping frenetically in the gale-force wind. "You may have escaped from Aquila, but you haven't escaped from me."

"I escaped twice, if you will recall," Philippe said, panting in fear. "Clearly I am fated to survive this place, so you may want to step away. You never know what could happen."

The soldier slapped him across the face. "Fate?" he said, sneering. "Your only fate is to die here."

"Then do it quickly," Philippe said. "A dying man is granted a last wish, and mine is for you to stop talking."

The soldier growled and stood, reaching for his sword. He raised it high over his head, point down. Philippe closed his eyes and curled up, shouting, "Forgive me Lord, I tried my best!"

The soldier screamed. Philippe cracked his eye open in time to see a large tree branch hit the man in the face, knocking him backwards and on the ground. The wind had reached truly terrible proportions, and it was all Philippe could do to crawl towards the courtyard gate, which banged wildly against the wall before being torn off completely. Philippe pulled himself into the courtyard and saw Navarre and Goliath surrounded and fighting furiously. The sound of the storm was all Philippe could hear, and the force of the wind drove his eyes to tears, obscuring his vision.

"Lord," he whispered. "Help us. Help them."

Suddenly, a lightening bolt crackled from the sky and struck, tossing men and horses everywhere. Isabeau appeared seemingly out of nowhere, wielding a large kitchen knife. Philippe watched in horror as she raced towards the fallen soldiers, screaming in fury. "My lady, no!" he cried. He lunged forward and grabbed her wrist, twisting it so that she dropped the knife. "You cannot kill, he could not bear it!"

She panted and struggled, her eyes glued on Navarre. He was slumped and bleeding on Goliath's neck, and Philippe didn't know how Goliath had managed to keep his feet when all around him had fallen, but it did not surprise him. Lightening struck again, this time hitting the stone wall across from them, throwing rock everywhere with explosive force.

"Navarre!" Isabeau screamed, desperately. Philippe held on tighter, flinching as bits of rock and stone fell on them. He squeezed his eyes against the wind and cried, "Lord, please!"

The storm died down as suddenly as it had begun. Philippe let Isabeau go, and she rushed to Navarre, gently drawing him down from the horse and cradling his head against her shoulder, crooning. Philippe knelt and picked up the dropped kitchen knife. Holding the knife low and at his side, he walked slowly to the nearest soldier.

"So, now you see," he said quietly. "We are protected by forces beyond your understanding." His heart was pounding. The man stared at him with wide eyes. He smelled faintly of smoke and sulphur. Philippe felt a little wild, and kicked him lightly with his foot. "You'd better leave now. Who knows what could happen next."

The man took a deep, ragged breath, and slowly stood. He gestured to his companions, and as they gathered themselves together, he bowed slightly to Navarre and Isabeau. "We are going," he said. "We will bother you no more."

Isabeau did not reply, but her eyes narrowed in warning. Philippe decided that he didn't actually see her eyes flash yellow. It was a trick of the light, surely. Navarre raised his head groggily, but still somehow managing to look menacing. "Go," he croaked. "Don't let me see you in Aquila again." The man bowed again, and lead his companions away, all of them bruised and bleeding. Philippe was not sorry to see them go.

"Philippe, help me," Isabeau called. She was trying to support Navarre's weight, but wasn't strong enough. Philippe rushed to give her a hand, and slowly, slowly, they made it inside the cabin and deposited him on the bed. Isabeau turned to Philippe and gave him a tremulous smile. "Once again you save us, dear friend," she whispered.

Philippe blinked hard, and swallowed. "It seems that is my fate," he replied, just as quietly.

Isabeau cupped his cheek in her hand, and gave him a light kiss on the forehead. "Then we are truly blessed, indeed."

Navarre reached out and grasped Philippe's hand. "Thank you," he said. Philippe nodded jerkily, wiped his sleeve across his eyes and left the room. He paused at the doorway and looked back inside. Isabeau was sitting on the edge of the bed, tenderly wiping the blood from Navarre's face with a corner of her dress. Navarre reached up and clasped her hand, pressing it to his cheek, his eyes never leaving hers. Philippe stepped back and headed for the kitchen. They would be wanting something to eat.

Epilogue

Imperuis poured a generous amount of wine into Philippe's cup. "Your friend from the inn," Imperius said. "I suspect you won't see him again." Philippe sipped the wine cautiously, then shrugged and drank deep. Isabeau and Navarre had asked him to stay, but he actually was worried about Imperius, and promised to return after checking on their friend. He had forgotten about the potency of the old man's wine. Imperius hadn't allowed him any when they first met, but they'd had an impromptu celebration after leaving Aquila. Philippe vaguely remembered standing atop a stone wall and singing very loudly. He remembered more clearly the shoe that Imperius had thrown at him to make him stop. Now, all these months later, Philippe and Imperius were back outside under the stars getting quite drunk, and, at least in Philippe's case, a bit maudlin.

"No," he said. "I don't think I will." He looked up. "What was he? No man could call forth the weather like that. How did he know to warn me? It is magical and unsettling. And yet, I didn't sense evil on him, not like the Bishop."

"Mysteries build upon mysteries, and we are never really free of them," Imperius pronounced, slurring his words slightly. "Evil is not always bad to smell, or ugly to look upon," he said. "It is often quite beguiling. But no, I do not believe your friend was evil. I don't know what he was, but I think you should be very glad for him."

"I would like to be free of mysteries," Philippe said somewhat sulkily. "I don't care for them, I feel like my life is being controlled by forces I cannot name, and I want them gone."

Imperius laughed, slapping Philippe sloppily on the back. "You say you tell the story of our adventures together. Do you think, little Mouse, that the tale ends only with a kiss? That lovers reunited will never experience heartache, or danger, or death? I told you once that you were caught up in a strange and powerful tale, and I do not think you will be able to get away so easily."

Philippe hung his head and scowled at the ground. Imperius stood, and staggered towards the doorway leading inside the monastery. "You should get some rest!" he called back, without turning his head. "Travelers with only stories to earn their bread need their sleep when they can get it." He disappeared around the corner.

Philippe watched him go. Overhead, the sky was clear, the air brisk. A hawk cried in the distance, and Philippe smiled slightly. He would never tell them, but there were times he missed Ladyhawke. He rose, stretched, and followed Imperius inside. Tomorrow was coming, sooner than he would like.

END


End file.
